


Take a rest

by bblamentation



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, small injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9090313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bblamentation/pseuds/bblamentation
Summary: Batman stands atop Gotham city making sure nothing can happen on this Christmas Eve, but a fellow hero coaxes him to resting and patching him up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly late christmas gift to one of my best friends, Effy ! I don't really know much about DC and know like the basic things for this pairing but I hope you like it my dear!

Gotham on Christmas Eve—or rather, Christmas Day, as the clocks had chimed for midnight—was still. Both the apartment windows that glowed with festivities and the dark ones who slept to wake to a warm morning were in need of guarding. The city at night was the cruellest and Bruce had seen enough injustice in one night that he knew never to trust the dark skies, especially when they hung with icy clouds.

Yet, in watching his quiet city he heard the flutter of the wind against cloth. The Dark Knight already had his black cloth draped round him to insulate the winter night for him to know the flutter was not his.

He had a visitor.

“Clark,” Bruce greeted his friend but did not bother looking towards the soft sound of feet touching the rooftop behind him.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Clark said and Bruce could tell there wasn’t that much distance between them. “I don't think there was a point in betting with Diana as to your whereabouts.”

Bruce grunted in response.

“It’s a quiet night. I won't need help,” Bruce said. “You need to rest after our last recon.”

“You're the one who needs rest,” Clark said stepping towards him with his hand reaching out for his side.

As if knowing where Clark aimed to touch—the bullet wounds he had received two days before winced in objection—Bruce turned round to face his him. He caught Clark's hand with a glare he knew would still be caught beneath his mask, “I told you to stop examining me.”

“I told you I’d stop when you tell me what you are doing—and I don't mean when you you're explaining tactics and plans to the league,” Clark scolded. He slipped his hand from Bruce’s grip with ease but tenderly slipped his hand back to hold gloved fingers. “I don't understand why you cannot rest. It worries me.”

Bruce’s gaze fell to the warmth caressing his fingers; they did so with a softness that contrasted the man’s strength. Although their skin did not kiss Bruce knew the weight of the touch. It was the same weight blue eyes had given the wounded Dark Knight after their last mission, worried with concern. When those eyes had first laid on him Bruce could only grunt a, “mm, fine,” but atop Gotham’s rooftop he was laid bare and tender under those fingers. They could have stayed there and let the night sky blanket them but Bruce needed to attend to duty.

He forced himself to look up and slanted a look towards Clark’s attire: spandex and a long cape that said, responsible. “Because you're clearly resting now.”

“I didn't mean you should rest because it's a holiday,” Clark shook his head. “I'm not the one injured. One hour of rest will not kill you and the cold will do more harm."

“It is only thirty-three degrees,” Bruce said trying to devalue how cold the night was and to validate standing on the rooftops, though he did need excuses to stand on watch. If anything Clark was making excuses for him not to guard his city. “It isn't snowing.”

Clark raised a knowing brow. “Are you saying you’ll return to the estate if it snows?”

Something in the way Clark cocked his head towards the sky irked Bruce—for an impossible man, Clark still did not fail to surprise his friends. No matter how many times Superman would stand akimbo ready to state that he would do something so utterly ridiculous but because it was him it was reasonable, the accomplishment would be met with appreciative compliments.

So Bruce had no proof that when the tiny white snowflake that fluttered before them was related to Clark, he did not waste his opportunity to respond to that knowing smile. Bruce glowered and he hoped Clark, this time, was seeing him without his mask.

“I think that's a sign to take you back,” Clark smiled and opened his arms as if he were asking for permission to embrace.

Bruce resigned with a grunt but, for pride’s sake, he made his friend wait before he could be touched and surveyed his city. Some of the lights that had glowed only a few minutes before Clark’s arrival were off and let the inhabitants rest. Lights were slowly turning out as if they were standing by Clark’s point that he was supposed to rest. To leave.

Bruce cursed the sky for the flecks of snowflakes. They were sparse but the way Clark still held his arms out ready to scoop Bruce up said that there could be no more excuses. He was being forced to retire for the night.

When Clark finally had Bruce comfortably in his arms he could not help make a comment, “This feels like tradition.”

“One day you’ll be able to carry me without making a comment,” Bruce tutted.

Clark chuckled, his laughter vibrating warmth from his chest, “and when will that be?”

“I wonder,” Bruce hummed and watched the way Clark’s lips curled teasingly.

Usually, Superman faced forward as he had a purpose for carrying his fellow league member but the teasing way Clark has curled his lips said he was doing more than just looking out for his friend.

Bruce’s memory of the first time Clark had carried him (or rather he had groggily woken to understand Superman was carrying a half-conscious Batman) was hazed with vertigo and open wounds. There had been many times when wounds had become too fatal that the Dark Knight had to be aided swiftly with a deft arm (two really) who wasn’t so vulnerable when their arms were occupied—Diana could hold the ground with ease—and those times were mixed in the early days of protests. However, as one of the few in the league to not possess flight or some other ability that allowed an easier travel Bruce found he was carried more to destinations with the league rather than using his own vehicles (honestly what was the point of owning ten automobiles).

Sure, he was used to being carried by now and even held in more intimate ways with only a caress of a finger, but that did not mean Bruce was above keeping to a certain degree of stubbornness. It was where he should put his hands? At least when he was unconscious he did not have to think where he should place his hands and when he was carried he could sling his arm round the back to touch his partner’s neck. This time he opted to place them in his lap, half a protest that he should still be stood watching his city and not flying over it.

At least in warm familiar arms could Bruce sigh into the fact he did not have to brace the cold alone. Flying closer to the grey clouds than the rooftops, Bruce was feeling the ice. Snowflakes twinkled in moonlight and streetlights as the floated down. Bruce watched the snowflakes land on various parts of Gotham City and half-wished that the blanket they would leave would be enough to stop injustice for one night.

 

* * *

 

The most efficient way of giving Bruce warmth from the snow and the cold was for Clark to fly straight to one of the balconies of Wayne Manor and let Bruce picklock his way into his home but to the civilian’s eye it was not a day-time journalist carrying a multi-millionaire but the Man of Steel valiantly carrying his teammate, Batman, the Dark Knight. On the nights of Christmas, it was hardly likely they would be seen by civilians (or even cruel enemies) but the risk of dropping by Wayne Manor was great.

Opting for the less efficient but most familiar path to the dark underground base, where shadows kept secrets hidden. As usual the place was dimly lit and the lighting would have been a hindrance if Clark had human eyes and was not familiar with the interior of the Batcave.

Finding the one comfortable sofa by the work area that looked like a chemistry lab, took relative ease for Clark and he set his partner down, carefully. Bruce grunted at him for letting his hands linger and that he was not as fragile as he was holding him to be. Clark chuckled but still kept his hands gentle even if they both had similar muscular masses.

“Why, good evening, Mister Kent.” Clark heard Alfred’s polite voice before he turned round to greet the butler. Alfred accepted his greeting with a nod and carried on, “I take it Master Bruce will be sleeping early tonight.”

“Yes, he should be resting with his wounds,” Clark said but his accusing tone was directed towards Bruce and not the butler.

Bruce shrugged and moved to pull his mask from his face. Despite the lack of decency in maintaining his health of anything above the minimum, it was plain for both Clark and Alfred to see the perspiration and heat radiating from Bruce that was not due to the mask.

“I already had medicine prepared for an early return,” Alfred nodded and gesturing to the varied vials and medical equipment set up on one of the benches. “Master Bruce refused to listen to me earlier but as always you have your way with words. Thank you for bringing him back,” Alfred complimented.

Clark was about to modestly decline Alfred’s apology but was interrupted by Bruce’s short laugh. “Thank you, Alfred. You always have faith in my return.”

“I at least have faith that you will return,” Alfred shook his head. “I fear the day Mister Kent or Ms Diana will arrive bearing not you in their arms but news.”

Bruce scowled at his butler, not daring to look at the concerned look Clark was sending his way. “You brighten my mood everyday, Alfred.”

“Yes, yes. I know when I’m dismissed,” Alfred nodded. He turned to address Clark, still stood beside Bruce, “I’m assuming he only needs rest and the wound hasn’t split. There’s creams here and bandages if you need them.”

Clark gave a nod that was almost a bow and thanked him. Alfred gave a deeper bow addressing both men before leaving for the manor.

As Alfred left, Bruce shifted in and stripped his cape off to cast over the back of the sofa. The cape was wet from where the snow had landed.

“You seem compliant now we are inside,” Clark commented on how easily the man began to settle.

“Whatever I do you’ll moan at me to do the right thing.”

“Self-care,” Clark corrected him and ignored the way Bruce rolled his eyes. He headed to the bench where Alfred had laid out varying degrees of medicine that looked like he had prepared both for the worst and for a scratch. Clark took some of the cream ointment that he thought would be most beneficial and knelt beside Bruce.

“Do I need to strip?” Bruce cocked a brow.

“Not necessarily,” Clark said. “You could’ve unbuckled your belt at least.”

Bruce shifted to angle his torso towards Clark, spreading his smirk across his face. “Where would the fun in that be?”

Clark gave a short laugh and shook his head. He unbuckled Bruce’s belt, careful that it did not graze the wound on his side. There was a little blood seeping through but it was hard to distinguish on the black material. Clark had already seen the wound had been stretched just a fraction but there had not been any signs of bleeding on the rooftop. He only hoped he had not put the wrong kind of pressure when he was carrying Bruce.

With one hand placed on Bruce’s chest staying him in position, the other pulled the gray shirt up carefully as to not brush the fabric with an open wound. The other day, Clark had only been able to glimpse through the cloth for a second with his vision but that day Bruce had known the meaning of that analytical and worried stare, and had angled himself away, to be unseen.

Yet, a day and a half after Clark was only able to see the wound. The bullet had grazed slightly deeper than Bruce’s movements feigned deftly. Clark had to praise Alfred for the medical attention and that the small amount of blood that had dabbed onto the cloth had probably been from stretching one wrong way, rather than strain.

“I’m sure Alfred told you certain ways to take care of this,” Clark said. He frowned at the lax way Bruce leaned back against the arm of the sofa with only his torso turned so his side faced the ceiling.

“He did,” Bruce agreed. He watched Clark’s face trace the wound with his eyes studying the wound and where to place the ointment. “You told me to rest but this position is getting a little uncomfortable.”

Tentatively, Clark pressed a finger near the wound not ignoring the inbreath Bruce made. “I guess I’ll tend to this first before letting you rest.” Using the cotton pads with the creams, Clark carefully massaged the ointment on the skin around the wound making sure the cream rubbed into the skin. He could hear Bruce was steadying his breathing but he was unsure if it was due to the sting of the ointment or the feel of fingers caressing against skin—somehow the lines blurred when Clark had to dab cream on the open areas.

When Clark was satisfied with the generous amount of cream and medicine he had applied, he looked to Bruce who was watching him. He expected him to say something but Bruce only asked, "finished?”

Clark nodded and allowed Bruce to shift his weight back to lay on the sofa a little more comfortably but made sure he wasn’t touching the creams. His hand was still splayed across Bruce’s large chest but neither commented, just watched, as Clark slid his hand down to the hem of his top. Deliberately making sure not to irritate the injury, Clark slowly pulled down Bruce’s top his knuckles grazing against skin.

“You’ll need to change this,” Clark pointed as his hand drifting to ghost the specks of dried blood where the injury was.

“I can do that later,” Bruce commented and shifted himself to comfortably place his hand on Clark’s. “Anyway, I thought you were going to let me rest.”

“Sure,” Clark shrugged. He slowly stood up, picking up the medicine to take his leave.

“Before you head back, you have to bring my car here.”

Clark smiled and leaned forward, face inches trying to wipe the smirk from Bruce’s face. “You should have said earlier,” Clark pressed his lips against that faltering smirk. “I would have brought both you and your vehicle home.”

Bruce hated himself for closing his eyes letting himself sink into the kiss (or the sofa, he couldn’t tell). Yet, that hatred was small and Bruce could not help but wrap one hand round the back of Clark’s neck and with the other gripped the spandex on his partner’s chest. “Would you really,” Bruce sighed. “I guess this can be a form of resting.”

Laughter slipped through bruising lips and Clark swore he was not going to be able to stop smiling for the rest of the night. If there was to be trouble in the snow, Superman would swoop in to overthrow the injustice but they both hoped that maybe villainy would take a break for one night.

Just one.


End file.
